Our pleasant Pakse tuktuk driver and wife, looking every bit of sixteen, but actually parents running a tour business with adequate command of English, loaded our luggage and twine-tied boxes on top. They left Skip and me at Nazim’s for an Indian omelet, French bread, and coffee. Orady and two young ‘nieces’ went across the street. I felt torn between eating with them, eating noodles as usual, or keeping Skip company. The omelet was delicious. Dragon and drums performed as we passed a streetside business flanked with red lanterns and door banners. Xin nian kuai le (Happy Chinese New Year)!
A parade of saffron-clad monks came down our hotel’s unnamed street, each pausing to get a dollop of food from a granny witting roadside in Lao skirt and tennis shoes. Skip explained that, rather than the old practice of placing offerings in random fashion in begging bowls, neighborhoods had organized to feed their religious leaders and temple tenders, taking turns.”Samaidee,” and they were on their way with full bellies and generous neighborhoods were blessed.
We headed, open-air, east on Route 23 toward Bolaven Plateau and Tad Yuang waterfall. First stop was a coffee/tea plantation, just beyond teak forests. 
Robusta, the commonly-traded coffee produces most of their 20,000 tons/year; shorter Arbica trees bring the most world-market profit to coffee growers there. I’d missed the beautiful rainy season, but muted deciduous tree jungle on low mountains held a fascination beauty. We hiked to a resort after looking at the double falls from both above and below. Beef fried rice, iced Lao coffee, and potato chips made a delicious lunch near cascading pools.
Three km farther, Tad Fane (Deer Waterfall?) cascaded impressively from two rivers and rewarded my increased effort to keep hiking. In a makeshift Ethnic Nge Village, a 72-year-old man played music with a stick bird balanced on his nose, demonstrated puzzles, as chickens pecked around our feet. I noticed that there, like markets in the cities, there was no pressure to buy. We bought because we wanted the item, and he beamed his thanks.
Women with face tattooes and huge earlobes swept and wove native designs in cotton shawls. Neck-pinched and wind-burnt, I rode the last 35 km beside the tuktuk driver in face-mask and sunglasses Orady provided. She also put some herbal liquid on my aching sinuses. Instant relief!
Skip joked that I had to stamp my passport with at least ten waterfalls before I could leave Laos. We found picture-postcard, Tad Champee. Tumultuous streams stretched several direction amidst house-sized limestone rocks. Men hawked pictures of themselves braving the roaring waters to fish.I found a bench and contemplated landlocked Laos, 2/3 the size of Germany without any seashore of her own. She seemed like Cinderella, poor step-sister next to Thailand, Burma, Cambodia, China, and Vietnam. Ruled by Khmers before the 14th century, then ruled by richer neighboring kingdoms for 400 years, Laos has long been Buddhist. France, established in Cambodia and South Vietnam by 1868, expanded the Mekong as an official Laos border and opened a trade route to China in 1893. Occupied by Japanese in 1940, Laos refused France’s re-establishing colonial power and declared independence September 1, 1945. A world apart from backpacking tourists snapping photographs, I imagined the guerilla war that followed along the 1800 km of rushing waters in jungle mountains that make up 80% of Laos. One good results of Laos’ many occupations. Colonizing efforts left a tasty fusion of Thai, Chinese, and Vietnamese cuisine with a quirky French flavor; I hoped for my appetite to return soon.
Finally back in Pakse and half awake, I stumbled into the Phaythavone Hotel room shared with the nieces, wishing I could skip a supper I didn’t want, and fell asleep. After a nap and bath, we dined along the Mekong River. I raked a small helping of Skip’s sweet/sour shrimp and vegetables over rice and nibbled with my fork. Laotians wrapped greens around seafood and dipped sticky rice in fish sauce that would have, on healthier days, made my mouth water. 
Quiet, pleasant conversation and impeccable table manners (in spite of Laotians using fingers instead chopsticks) struck me as vivid contrast to habitually hearing smacking and shouting with full mouths that showed dining enjoyment in China. No bones were deposited on the tablecloth as colored lights twinkled in Mekong reflections! The world felt at peace and resting as we climbed into the tuktuk for the hotel.
1-28-09
Thai/French/English/Italian/Lao/Chinese joking just outside our hotel door didn’t keep me from deep sleep. It became increasingly difficult, however, when the girls arose around 5:00 a.m. and watched TV. Our driver came in at 6:30, chirping “How are you today?” I buried under the sheet and told him I’d be ready at 9:00, as decided the night before. We went to breakfast at 8:15. Nazim’s Indian pancake was like an eggy crepe with frosting drizzled over it; someone ate most of mine on our windy tuktuk ride to the Mekong Ferry and 4000 Islands.
Don Khone–largest of 4000 Islands in southern Laos, close to Cambodia–has 19 villages, 99 mountaintops, palm sugar, palm leaf hats, Lao Kao Gum (a potent alcohol), sacred caves, and Vat Phou ruins.Exhibition Hall displayed ancient archeological artifacts before we trekked from two temples’ ruins toward “Buddha and Food” up many terraces. I told my lagging muscles it was worth it, and it was: Ancient snake carvings on boulders, people kowtowing before a golden standing budda, ornately carved window and doorway details, and a view of the enormous rennovation and ponds glistening in the sun.
We got in long, tipsy boats for Don Khon, where a truck fearlessly drove us between swaying palms, brush, and dry rice paddies. The rusty relic from Laos’ French railroad was worth a picture; it once ran the length of two islands across precarious bridges on rails now converted to fence posts. Europeans and Asians, on bikes and foot, looked longingly at our vehicle as the day grew hot.I was glad we didn’t turn south to hunt the Irrawaddy dolphins, endangered and dwindling from 30 in 1993 to 10 at my brochure’s printing. Past sleepy villages, we boarded our longboat and headed back toward Pakse. Sinuses blocked beyond the reach of miracle potions, I struggled to be attentive, ate little, and crashed twelve hours when Orady said the girls would sleep in their room next door.
1-29-09
Bundled against dust on a service bus, we passed teak (tall, with deadish big leaves), rubber, cassava (manioc), coffee, tea, banana, black pepper, and papaya trees. I slept off and on across the Bolavan Plateau until we pulled into dusty Wapi’s station. Skip hunted shade one direction; Orady and the girls went to get snacks in another. I slept, hoping the bus wouldn’t heat up too much. Another service bus arrived, Orady donned a hooded sweatshirt, and I learned why we were riding a “dustbin.” Scenery was primitive jungle with occasional stilted bamboo houses, where villagers hopped a ride; I fell asleep against my will and a cracked window.
“We’re here!” Skip announced. Smiling ‘relatives’ arrived with two-wheeled luggage wagons. Skip and I walked toward a young girl with a toddler on her hip. He scooped the baby up, talking like a reunited grandfather the eighth-mile road away from the village, “This is Noi and Oraphim.” I had a feeling that Oraphim helped ease the loneliness for their KS grandson, Andy’s son Champa, about the same age. We entered between a hedge of potted flowers along the compound fence. “I call it ‘the Estate’.” Skip grinned. He pointed out their kapok tree (pods), Oraphim’s mom’s stilted house, Grandpa’s house, two brothers’ houses, their cement two-story house, and the kitchen below their old “Bamboo Palace” house, often quarters for folks who came to eat Orady’s fare and gain strength from various ailments.
We piled in a van, turning off cement highways on rutted dirt stretching between rice ponds, sprawling cement houses, thatched bamboo dwellings on stilts, and a few fenced yards. Orady’s “uncle,” a policeman welcomed us with hands clasped at forehead, “Samaidee,” and a hearty laugh, then turned to men waiting dinner in the yard.
Skip and I walked past fences topped with broken glass, yards full of folks laughing and chattering on bamboo mats, identical stalls selling snack items, and met children, chickens, dogs, motorcycles, scooters, irrigation ditches, and one cow. No zoning laws here, evidently. Cold season (November-February) was shifting to dusty Hot Season (March-May); Rainy Season (June-October) was a long way off, even in the wetter northern province. Dinner was served Skip and me indoors after an appetizer of papaya chunks. Uncle’s extended ‘family’ fed us fresh salad, vegetable-mushrooms-pork-rice with delicious small bananas before Rush Hour (English with Lao subtitles) with a half-dozen dark-eyed males whose tinkering on tires and motors ended at sundown.
1-26-09 Orado’s make up was perfect, as were her Lao blouse and skirt, for meeting with a government official whose permission could affect their near future. Seven of us climbed in the back of an open, blue, three-wheeled tuktuk for the trip. Our driver ‘nephew’ used the center line; cars and motorcycles passed on both sides. I wandered a market while they met the important man who, luckily “knew someone Orady knew.” Afterward, we visited gold-painted Pha That Lunag (Great Stupa), a temple with headless statues around a courtyard. I bought a Lao skirt ($6) and tee ($1) at temple market and found Laos’ popular mulberry tea at a weaving business whose sweatshop sat next to quite a house by any country’s standards.
After a short drive by tuktuk, Orady ordered noodles and red bean dessert (for Laotians) and hamburgers and fruit plate (for Skip and me); then we visited the Peace Gong and climbed a landmark cement arch another “Orady’s Uncle” built in Vientiane’s central park. 
After Orady’s (Prego) spaghetti al fredo and salad and a bath, we packed for a 10-hour sleeper bus trip to Pakse. The lower double bunk (I had expected single beds, like Chinese sleepers) barely held a young mom, two-year-old, and me. We stopped twice during my fitful night; and I discovered Lao potato chips actually tasted like Lay’s, no sweet knock-off copies like I had in China.
I’ve returned from Laos, ready to teach tomorrow, with too many rich memories for one blog. Two days, each before and after the trip, gave me some time in my 2008 teaching home city. It didn’t take long to see changes: a new Ring Road headed west from the train station to take us north to Rebecca’s spacious apartment. Through an arrangement with a college in the states, she pays a little for three furnished floors with lovely plants and artwork seldom seen in Chinese homes.
Mr. Li, head of Southwest Forestry College’s Foreign Language Department, e-mailed to ask if I had “time and appetite for a meal,” a nice evening surprise. We met him and Kunming friends at a restaurant I remembered fondly. The table filled with dishes above a white cloth and napkins: vegetables, tofu, duck, fish, beef, pork, soup, and a first for me: wasp larvae and bamboo worms, crisply fried and presented with dipping sauce. I dutifully tried each, had another protein-rich wasp larvae, almost regretting when I destroyed mud-daubers’ nests on my Montana deck and let nature take its course with their contents. Great Wall red wine was used for “Gambei!” toasts. There were quite a few. Thankfully, the waitress poured only a thimble full between speeches after which most glasses were emptied. No sipping allowed! I also enjoyed a yogurt drink I’d had at past college dinners. Around the table, Rebecca–teacher in Kunming, Mr. Li–my old boss, Peter–colleague from last year and recent visitor to Sanya, Jenny–tutoree who works with Prevention and Treatment of AIDS Project, her husband Charles, and Dr. Li–a heart specialist “with a Ph.D.” and very limited English. I wished for more language to talk with her. Conversation was bland until Charles mentioned “The Vagina Monologues,” saying how popular they were across Thailand and China. 
He emphasized the research base for the play. I made a mental note to tell Jenny I was unfamiliar with research when I saw the enjoyable live drama in Kansas City sometime ago. We hailed a cab to avoid a shivering wait for a bus. I ushered in my vacation by feeling too full to sleep, watched “Legally Blond” on Rebecca’s VCR, an enjoyable romp. Next morning, the sun shone on a ressurrected Kunming! I wondered if I was wise to leave Spring City as I presented my e-ticket to Laos. 
Contrary to the posted sign listing “semen” among the substances prohibited from passing security, there were plenty of men pushing in front of me and ignoring lines at Kunming International. China’s lack of time zones didn’t give me an explanation for why my ticket said we’d arrive in Laos an hour and a half after take off instead of the hour later that actually happened. Ten days later and feeling bedraggled, I returned to “Taxi?” from folks just outside the airport exit. “120 yuan.” I reacted with disdain, told them I’d never paid more than 35 to Southwest Forestry. “No taxi today…” didn’t cut it; a man said, “80 yuan” as if it was his final offer. We called Jenny, who said 60 was fair at rush hour and gave them her address. They ushered me to a shiny black sedan with no meter. I hoped for the best and suspected the man who drove me north at a snail’s pace actually lived in Jenny’s complex. He earned his yuan (<$9 US) through several traffic jams, changing routes to inch ahead, and got us to the neighborhood gate in an hour. The guards seated me and called Charles, who arrived in Jenny’s passenger’s seat within a few minutes. They had come from downtown in about the same amount of time as we had. These young Chinese professionals’ apartment home was lovely and warm, done with Thai-style furnishings, heated tile floors, and bamboo-like wall coverings. Art objects from travels to India, Thailand, Indonesia, and Mexico City added interest. We entered in a sunken garden full of plants. Coy swam in gurgling water. After visiting a nearby restaurant “famous for Yunnan chicken,” I showered and fell asleep for nearly 12 hours. Next morning, Jenny and I had hot tea and bakery bread with sweet bean curd (I enjoyed an apple and orange, but fruit doesn’t seem to make it to breakfast menus for most Chinese) while “a domestic” cleaned nearly four hours. For a thorough spit and polish, he earned 100 yuan. I finished my paperback. 
Jenny and I went to the jaozi restaurant mentioned earlier, where she told me the places she worked before finding her passion in this present one with PTAP organization–waitressing, sales, Salvation Army.I told her of ex-students, graduates who e-mail me about frequent job changes their first year. She said that wasn’t uncommon, but she suggested that they stick with jobs long enough to get promotions, as she had.It was pleasant weather for eating outside or in, quite a change from the lunch with Rebecca two weeks earlier. I picked up a couple of items from nearby Metro–microwave popcorn to serve Golden Sun teachers on movie night and Swiss dark chocolate. Jenny puzzled over why so many folks like chocolate and give it as a housewarming gift: Obviously a Western practice, we decided. She brightened at the thought of a foot massage and drove us to Green Lake, where two blind guys did a thorough job. We picked up Charles from his office and were home in forty minutes. He cooked eggplant, greens, pumpkin, and a soup to go with minced pork and left-over chicken. I read Jenny’s annual report while they shopped for a dinner party scheduled the next day. A few minor edits, and I gratefully drifted off to sleep, glad for both Kunming experiences. Hospitality, friendships, and shared foot massages made fancy bookends for Laotian experiences (to follow after settling into Sanya’s work routine).
